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It would probably surprise you to learn that a graveyard sits
smack-dab in the middle of a small New England city. You'd never
know, to drive by on either one of the two highways that skirts
Hartford. But it's there, nestled between the Gold Building and
a massive urban church, shadowed by The Travelers tower, first
phallic symbol of this old Puritan outpost.
If you were to wander into the cemetery -- the Ancient Burial
Ground, as it's called -- you'd find tombstones as old as Hartford's
first residents and as young as American Federalism. And if you
felt you were being watched as you strolled the grounds, it might
be the angel-heads staring at you from their timeless perches
atop their tombstones, visages like some happy-faced renaissance
sun met with a pirate's skull, then morphed into something only
director Tim Burton would love.
And if you still felt yourself being watched -- well, maybe the
street culture's checking you out. Maybe the beady, withdrawal-plagued
eyes of a street person, just waking up under the cemetery hedges,
have spied you out. Or maybe it's the disaffected gaze of folks
just outside the grounds, people curious enough to watch you because
you're new to their tired old routine of watching and waiting
for the Q bus. Then again, maybe you hit it lucky and found a
group of overexcited schoolchildren, field-tripping their way
through Connecticut history.
But chances are, you won't find Mark or Ramona there. They already
had their moment in the sun -- well, under moon, really -- and
they're not likely to repeat their offense. Not after narrowly
escaping the watchful eye of the HPD.
It started with Mark. A lover of trivia, he stumbled across the
fact that the Hartford's founder, one Thomas Hooker, Puritan minister
and pioneer, probably was not actually buried at the tombstone
that honored him. As a humble pilgrim, Hooker didn't believe in
frills, and because a tombstone was as frilly to him as a lace
collar, he swore off the concept of hallowed ground. So the man's
buried somewhere in there, Mark realized, but he could be next
to an illustrious lawyer, a poor pilgrim, or a very early-American
slave.
Unlike Hooker, Mark believed in hallowed things, but only for
the sake of sacrilege. He lived in an arrested state of punkhood
and still looked for new ways to transgress against the status
quo, especially now that the status quo included former drinking
buddies who had long ago settled down to lawns, kids, and SUVs.
How to transgress, however, had become problematic with age and
he was always on the prowl.
Ironically, Mark's idea came to him during one day during a boring
jack-off. In a brief mental epiphany -- the best of which always
happened when it involved his dick -- the word sex lead to hooker,
which led to Thomas Hooker. That was followed by the vision of
Ramona's face, followed by his familiarity with her tight ass,
followed by a quick tension, a long release, and a thick glob
of cum which oozed onto his belly.
Knowing a good idea when he had one, Mark dipped his fingers into
this creamery-thick pool, then reached for his nightstand phone
and put his goopy fingers to dialing Ramona.
“Hey, baby," she cooed when she recognized Mark's voice.
"How about dinner and a trick?" Mark inquired.
"It'll cost you," she warned.
"It always does." His voice sounded like a shrug of the shoulders.
Dinner was hoot. On the surface, they looked like a stylish couple
consuming peasant chicken and micro-brewed beer at City Steam.
Men would think Mark lucky to have such a doe-eyed, lush-haired,
pouting-lipped beauty while women would ruffle territorially.
But when the hordes on the happy-hour make looked closely, they
would see a hint of masculinity where none should have existed
and an aggressive glint in eyes that should've shown demur and
inviting. Which suited Mark just fine. He liked freaking the mundanes.
But not Ramona. "This place is a fucking meat market," she complained.
"That's how straight men cruise, Sugar."
"Pigs!" she decided before amending her judgment with a present company aside codicil.
Mark simply smiled. He loved Ramona's feisty ways and if the straight
men and women around them found themselves challenged by her presence,
all the better. He had known Ramona for four years and, while
he had never had the pleasure of meeting the Juan that once was,
he'd seen enough of the remnants of Juan to make him adore Ramona
all the more. That his relationship with Ramona always included
a cash-and-carry exchange only made her more attractive to him.
After all, how many straight men could say they forked over good
cash for a piece of tight ass?and to fund a favorite fuck buddy's
lifelong dream of gender reassignment?
"I don't like this place," Ramona protested. As she glowered her
way through coffee and dessert, Mark reminded her that the day
she got her pussy was the day she'd have to start living straight.
"After all, how much of gay society's going to be there for you
when you give up your dick?" he asked.
Ramona huffed and feigned indifference but Mark knew that beneath
her haughty veneer sat an appreciative girl. No matter what she
threw his way -- fuck fees, bills for her hormone treatments,
conflicting schedules due to her slavish clients, even the occasional
temper tantrum -- he stood by her without complaint. She knew
he had earned the right to be her Sugar Daddy, even if he was
wrong about her gay friends.
As they left the restaurant, Mark remarked, "Time is money." To
which Ramona answered, "So what do you have in mind?"
Mark smile slyly. "You'll see." He took her by the arm and briskly
walked her down Main Street. When they passed Asylum Street and
the parking garage that sat on that block, she knew they weren't
about to leave the city. As they breezed past the Gold Building,
she started to complain, "Slow down. It's hard in these heels."
Mark chuckled. "I'll get you off your feet soon enough."
When they turned rounded the corner of Gold Street and headed
into the Ancient Burial
Ground, Ramona crossed herself as she said, "You fucking pervert."
"Not yet I'm not.”
Slow dining had afforded Mark and Ramona with the cover of dark
and with the city now void of activity, the burial ground afforded
them some privacy. Mark took Ramona deep into the cemetery, passed
the back of the old church, and practically center square to the
burial ground's Main Street entrance. Had he done so during daylight,
they would've never escaped notice, the spot was so public, but
now, at night, only the occasional glint of a streetlight through
the trees cast any light.
Darkness didn't keep Mark from knowing where he was and what he
wanted. He had Ramona kneel before the tombstone of his choice,
and, as he unzipped his pants and freed his dick he read, "In
memory of the Rev. Thomas Hooker who in 1636 with his assistant
Mr. Stone removed to Hartford with about 100 persons where he
planted ye First Church in Connecticut. An eloquent, able and
faithful Minister of Christ, He died July 7th, 1647."
"Now," he added "make yourself eloquent and minister to my dick."
"Teeth or no teeth?"
It was a classic Hartford whore statement, but Mark opted to "make
it middle class." He didn't need a taste of Ramona's early days,
where she could charge more for a blowjob by virtue of a no-uppers
grin?not this time, at any rate.
Ramona sneered, called him a pervert again, and took his dick
into her mouth. She crossed herself as she did. Whether it was
over the teeth or the setting, she didn't say, but whatever distaste
she displayed evaporated when she tasted his dick. She loved how
it bulged when it felt her mouth slip over it. She inhaled deeply
as she took it, thinking that if she couldn't actually have his
balls in her face, at least she could enjoy their scent.
As she sucked, Ramona swooned, not because she worshipped Mark's
magnificence but because she conjured up a pussy in her head and
longed to know how it would feel to have a cock swelled inside
her. She wondered how it would feel to finally have a dick on
the inside instead of outside.
In all honesty, she wasn't sure she'd really let Mark's dick inside
what would be a $30,000 sculpture, but that didn't stop her from
giving good head. She tongued Mark's dick with enthusiasm, working
up and down its length and paying special tongue attention to
that tender spot just below its head
Mark groaned in hearty appreciation but he wanted more: He wanted
to face-fuck her. He leaned forward and, bracing himself hands-first
against the top of the Honorable Hooker's tombstone, began to
push-up himself in and out of her mouth. Briefly, Ramona's teeth
scraped over his head and, flinching, he wondered if he should've
gone for the lower class accommodation.
But his dick throbbed, his balls grew tight, and Ramona made little
sex sounds -- the whimpers of a good bottom getting done -- and
other than that one scrape, her mouth felt oh-so good. It was
a wet and wonderfully open thing, made all the more delicious
by the rumbling groans vibrating up from her throat.
However, as much as he might like to, Mark didn't want to come
this way. He had other plans, just as morbid as doing a hooker
over Hooker's marker and they didn't conclude with a blowjob.
He pulled his cock from Ramona's mouth, uttering a moan as she
let it pop free.
"Get up," he rasped. He helped her up, giving her time to get
steady on her feet, before moving her over to another grave.
Unlike Hooker's tombstone, this grave had a tablestone -- a tombstone
laid flat atop several walls of stone, meant to mimic a sarcophagus.
Mark patted the tablestone's top, motioning to Ramona. "Time to
bend over."
"You're going to keep me in confession for a month, you know that?"
Ramona complained.
"At least you have a priest for your private demons, honey," Mark
replied. "Me, I want my demon exorcised."
Ramona huffed, "enough with the "clichés" as she bent over the
tablestone. She laid a hand to each side and held herself there,
just like she was at the kitchen table. She felt Mark lift her
skirt and pull down her panties just enough to expose her ass.
She heard the snap of a lid and then felt Mark's lubed fingers
at her ass. "At least you're generous," she opined. Mark smiled.
If only Ramona knew that she was pressing her tits against a ancient,
morbid poem that warned Death is a debt to Nature due/Which I have paied & so must you, she might insist on the convent.
Mark kept that esoteric knowledge to himself and slathered Ramona's
hole instead. Then, he slipped his finger inside, as much to claim
his territory as to ready it. He loved Ramona's ass and he financed
her well enough that she only had to do out-call domination. That
ass was his and someday Ramona's cunt would be as well.
"You have the perfect hole," he told her.
For the first time all evening, Ramona giggled and, looking over
her shoulder, smiled broadly at Mark. His words were manna to
her ears, especially when she fast-forwarded into the future and
applied those words to her cunt. However, the here and now was
a riskier place, and she knew from her street days that one only
had so much time in which to conclude business.
"You better get to it, if you want to fuck me before the cops
show up."
Mark grunted in agreement, took his cock in hand, and aimed it
at that perfect hole. Slowly he pushed. Ramona's hole resisted
ever so slightly before it acquiesced and let the head of his
dick in. Ramona moaned lusciously; she liked the feel of his cock
making headway as much as he liked the feel of her hole giving
way. Mark pushed a little more and felt himself slip in further.
Normally, Mark would've slowly inched his way in and out and up
Ramona's ass. He liked taking his time in encouraging her to open
up to him, but when he looked up from her round ass, the cold
stone memories of the long-ago departed jutted up from the ground
all around him as if they were watching. The grounds were quietly
eerie and only by the sounds of leaves rustling in a tree top
breeze and the occasional late-night vehicle punctuate the silence.
Mark was glad for those sounds of urban normalcy; they kept him
from imagining the dead rising up to watch him.
Which would've kept him from Ramona and her willing ass. He took
her by the hips and began a slow but firm reaming. Ramona groaned
again as his cock went to work on her, then threw back her hair
and arched her ass to show she liked what he was doing. And her
response -- sexy, defiant, willing -- sent Mark right into frenzy
mode. His slow reaming went straight to merciless ramming.
Ramona grabbed the tablestone when Mark slammed into her and clutched
it for dear life. An abject moan escaped her lips every time Mark
rammed his dick up her, and her whole body reacted every time
he pulled back. His dick was relentless in its pursuit; swift
and selfish and something else.
And swift, selfish fucks don't take long. Between Ramona's perfect
hole and his hungry dick, Mark felt his climax approach in no
time at all.
But not before Ramona got to issue her own selfish complaints.
Mark's fury had pushed her right up against the tablestone, pelvic
bone first, and she had just issued her fourth expletive when
Mark pulled out of her and pushed her aside. He barely uttered
"move!" when, pumping his dick with his hand, he came, spurting
a stream on come over the tablestone. Gasping as his orgasm raged
through him, he caught the last bit of spunk in his hand.
Next to him, a vexed Ramona declared, "You bastard!" as she rubbed
her crotch and lowered her skirt.
But the scene wasn't over. Not yet it wasn't. Not until his orgasm
subsided, until his panting returned to quiet breathing, and until
he had the presence of mind to put his dick in his pants.
Then and only then did he conclude the scene: He took that last
bit of spunk and returned to Hooker's grave where he wiped it
over the dead man's name. He looked to Ramona. "Now I'm a fucking
pervert."
Ramona, pointing to her crotch, hissed, "You shithead! You rubbed
me raw!"
"Is there a problem here?"
It doesn't take a big stretch of imagination to know those are
the words of a cop on duty and, sure enough, one of Hartford's
finest had finally caught up with Mark and Ramona. Rising from
Hooker's grave, Mark answered, "Not really, officer. I just wanted
to take in a little history after dinner. She's miffed that I
dragged her in here after dark."
Ramona turned to face the officer, said nothing but crossed herself
like the good Catholic girl she always wanted to be.
"Next time, visit before dinner," the cop said curtly. "These
grounds are closed after dark." He scrutinized Mark and Ramona
as he spoke, trying to assess just what they might've been doing.
He hadn't seen the scramble typical of people trying to hide drugs
and paraphernalia as he approached, neither did he smell pot or
alcohol on them. All he'd really witnessed was a woman apparently
scolding a man so quietly that he couldn't detect any clues.
"We'll leave," Mark offered. "Sorry to have been a nuisance."
As the cop nodded, Mark took Ramona by the arm and headed back
towards Grove Street. The cop, meanwhile, turned his attention
to the hedges, looking for vagrants.
When Mark and Ramona hit the relative safety of the street, Mark
said, "That was close."
Ramona laughed. "That wasn't close. Close is when you've just
lifted your head up from a john's lap and he barely gets zipped
up before the cop's at the window, asking for his ID and your
smile."
Mark smirked. He knew Ramona was right and he wasn't about to
argue with her. But he was also satisfied. He'd left his mark
on Hooker's grave. He had completed his perverted little goal
and it was easy to be charitable in the flush of accomplishment.
As they walked down the street, he let Ramona harangue him for
his thoughtless treatment of her crotch. He let her carry on about
how she wasn't going to let him anywhere near her pussy when she
got it, if he continued to treat her with such disrespect. But
he also knew what kept them together and, as he planted an affectionate
peck on her cheek, he knew that depositing an extra twenty-five
percent above and beyond Ramona's exorbitant fee into her pussy
bank account would redeem him. And no matter how much she ranted
otherwise, he wanted to stay in her haughty but good graces. After
all, she was hallowed ground and he intended to make sure she
knew he worshipped that which he loved to defile.
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